Cad Bane versus Domesticity
by Igorina
Summary: Bane knows that lying low in the suburbs can do funny things to a bounty hunter, but he never thought that things would get quite this out of hand. Aurra Sing/Cad Bane.


**Disclaimer:** The Star Wars universe belongs to George Lucas, I own none of the characters or settings to be found herein. No profit is being made from this work of fanfiction.

**A/N:** This ficlet was written for someone on dA who requested an Aurra/Bane ficlet in which: "...they do something pretty suburban (or at least suburban for these two) and it starts to freak Bane out."

**-o0O0o-**

"Hey, Aurra, I'm home."

The unease struck before the words had finished leaving mouth. Why had he felt the urge to declare his return to his co-conspirator? And – perhaps more importantly – why was he referring to this dump as home? It was a hideaway. A bolt hole. A convenient out of the way place to lie low and plan the next job.

Blinking as if trying to dislodge the thoughts, he wandered into the residential units living area and encountered a sight that left him feeling even more unsettled: Aurra, lounging on the sofa in the bathrobe he'd stolen from the Coruscant Hil'Tuhn Hotel, a copy of Blasters and Ammo in one hand and a lit tabac stick in the other.

It wasn't the informality of the pose that bothered him per se. Hell, in the last six months alone he'd had her on top of him, underneath him, bent over tables and – on three particularly memorable occasions – been bent over tables by her. No, he could accept that their acquaintanceship had, for better or worse, crossed the line whereby being partially clothed in one another's presence was a routine occurrence. It was the unselfconsciousness that got him. The way she looked as if she didn't have anything to prove. Aurra _always_ had something to prove dammit. Especially around him. Sure, they might share certain predilections that they struggled to sate elsewhere, but he was still her greatest professional rival.

"Any luck with Embo?" she said, stubbing out the tabac stick in the ashtray he'd lifted from a Senate gathering fifteen years earlier(1).

"Not interested," Bane said. He purposefully refrained from mentioning that Embo's sole reason for not wishing to participate in the scheme was that he didn't want to work with that "deranged bitch, Sing"(2), before inwardly starting at his reasons for doing so. Since when had stopped trying to provoke her for the sake of a quiet life? He _liked_ provoking her. Affront her just enough and she got that oh so amusing expression of enraged petulance. Granted, it meant that she'd be rather less inclined to put out afterwards (or at least only inclined to put out in a manner that would lead to him requiring a few applications of bacta in the morning), but he could always head on down to the nearest massage parlour(3)

Now though... now all he wanted to do was sit down, have a drink and possibly solicit a few favours from his temporary cohabitant while watching reruns of that documentary on life in the Muunilinst credit stamping press(4).

What the kark was happening to him?

"Try Alama," she said, stretching. "He's dumb muscle, but that's all we need." Then, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, she added: "Your dinner's in the oven."

For a few moments he was struck dumb. Not quite able to process the utterly un-Aurra-like words she'd just uttered.

When he did managed to respond it was in the form of a strangled: "_What?_"

"I couldn't very well let it go cold on the counter, could I? Not after all that hard work."

"You cooked it... choor'self?" A cold trickle of fear ran through him. It was wrong, it was unnatural, it was...

"The neighbour gave me the recipe."

..._horribly, painfully suburban_.

"Neighbour? You've been talkin' to de neighbours?"

She shrugged. "You told me not to shoot them on sight. Anyway, her name's Tsoo-Tse Homaikur and she's invited us to a dinner party."

"A dinner party?" Bane repeated. The trickle of fear turned into a torrent.

"I said yes. It seemed rude not to after all the baby clothes she gave to me."

"Baby clothes?" His voice was a near whimper now. What the hell had happened to Aurra? His sadistic, spiteful, sexy, shoot-you-as-soon-as-look-at-you, Aurra.

She went on, seemingly oblivious to his mounting horror, her voice gradually adopting more and more of that grating tone commonly employed by holo-soap housewives. "I told her that we couldn't have children of our own and that Todo was our adopted droid baby substitute... You should see him in the little green bonnet. Anyway, she think that you worked as a wages clerk for that big ore reprocessing outfit, so you'll have to put on a cheap grey suit and talk about accountancy. Of course, we'll have to ask them round next week. We can't have them thinking that we're the sort of people who—"

Bane did not hear the rest. The panicked yelp emanating from his own throat was enough to halt her increasingly insipid blatherings.

"Kark it Aurra. What de hell have dey done to you? Dis morning you were throwing knives at a picture of dat little Senator piece from Naboo. Now choo're talkin' about dinner parties and... and _droid babies_." He knew he was sounding increasingly hysterical but couldn't quite seem to do anything to bring it under control. "It's like dat damned holo, de Wives of Stehp'fard Prime."

For a few moments she regarded him with what seemed like near-bovine passivity. Then she started to convulse. At first Bane thought that the neural wiring for her antenna must have gone caput. However, the moment she opened her mouth the truth became clear.

She was laughing.

Laughing hard, gleefully and entirely as his expense.

"The look on your face, Bane." she choked out, before lapsing back into mirth.

"Why choo..."Relieved yet at the same time thoroughly furious, he launched himself at her.

Aurra, too consumed with merriment to retaliate in her usual fashion, didn't bother to resist when the Duros pinned her on her back and shoved aside the bathrobe.

Five minutes later Bane was alternating between grunts, rasps and filthy endearments, while Aurra made increasingly incoherent demands that he do her like he goddamn meant it.

Ten minutes later, the Duros was spent, head buried in the crook of a long pale neck.

"Sooo, is my dinner really in de oven?" he asked, spitting a stray braid of hair out of his mouth.

"Yes." Aurra snorted. "On reheat. I ordered out from some Nautolan joint on one of your fake Solar Cards. Your little rust bucket was refusing to cook. He's a _Techno Service Droid_ apparently."

"Where is Todo anyway?"

"Sulking in the bedroom like a jealous lover. I think he thinks I'm trying to steal you away." She shifted underneath him. "I didn't actually put a bonnet on him if that's what you're worried about."

He chuckled the mental image now amusing rather than terrifying. "You're a twisted woman, Aurra Sing."

She smirked. "Don't pretend you don't like it."

Suddenly cognizant of a certain strange intimacy between the two of them, part of Bane recoiled. The rest of him however figured that as long as it didn't involve suburban dinner parties, cheap grey suits or droid babies he could live with it.

**-0-**

(1)In the days before Senator Amidala's clean air laws had sent the tabac smoking real-politik contingent scurrying out onto a narrow open-air balcony in a sorry little huddle.

(2)It sounded more poetic when spoken in Embo's native language.

(3)Even if their _Exquisite Emerald Twi'lek Harem Girls_ did look suspiciously like Rodians with papier-mâché lekku attached.

(4)He told himself each time that he was preparing himself for a big career topping heist, but really there was just _something_ about all those newly minted credits cascading off the production line that got him almost as excited as the annual Miss Galactic Wet T-shirt contest.


End file.
